


Gentlemen of the Road: On the Abridged Recountings of Assorted Misadventures, and Mishaps

by Frogman128



Category: Gentlemen of the Road - Michael Chabon
Genre: Action/Adventure, Anthology, Bandits & Outlaws, Companions, Gen, Historical Fantasy
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-02-28
Updated: 2021-03-07
Packaged: 2021-03-12 01:09:16
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 9,930
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29751819
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Frogman128/pseuds/Frogman128
Summary: An adventure anthology dedicated to one of my favorite duos in all of fiction. Hope you enjoy!
Relationships: Amram (Gentlemen of the Road)/Zelikman (Gentlemen of the Road)
Comments: 4
Kudos: 2





	1. On The Coveted Recipes of Fabled Stones, Intersecting Interests, and the Fraud-Proof Quality of Shatranj

How does one cheat at Shatranj? The question ate away at the back of Amram’s mind for-deep down-he knew it to be an impossibility, despite his pride claiming otherwise. Dice could be loaded and cards are cleverly hidden. Shatranj, however, was a tried and true battle of wit, where no piece of information hides from the public, and where the usual suspects of sleight of hand and trickery are virtually useless, in the face of the glorious, checkered board.

Yes, he had most definitely been the victim of swindle, the hulking Abyssinian thought, there could be no other logical explanation for his loss, none whatsoever.

“Goodness gracious, Amram. Are you still thinking about it?” Zelikman, Amram’s now hat-less companion, grumbled. The lithe Frank had yet to drink from the foul drink in his mug, not that the most expensive beverage in the seedy, low-life ridden tavern would have pleased him either way.

Amram sighed and drank from his mug, his tenth one of the day. “We were unjustly tricked, Zelikman. Why is it that you cannot find it in your heart to support me in these direst moments? Are you not my partner in crime, in highest highs and lowest lows?”

“ _You_ _lost the bet_ , _Amram_. Your overconfidence claimed the better of you and now we are without funds, without steeds, and stuck in the foulest part, of the foulest city, in the foulest country, of the entire known world! Oh, and need I not remind you, you also lost _my hat_!” He finally drank, downing it all in one go. He gasped. “So if you would be so kind and _get over it_.”

“Forgive me, old friend, but it is not my hurt pride, nor our lost funds that enrage me, no, those are but mere trivialities. It is the knowledge, that somewhere, someone has marred the good name of an immaculate pastime, through the detestable act of cheating,” he drank again, furiously this time. “And you exaggerate really. Italy is not that bad.” 

Zelikman laughed mockingly. “Really now? The horse robber crying foul against implausible treachery. Why If I were drunk enough I would no doubt double-cross you and turn you over to those high and mighty Templars mucking about outside, but then again, I sincerely doubt the reward money would amount to much of anything, beyond the purchase of a mangy and prideful _ass_.”

Amram looked ahead, his eyes lost on thoughts within, completely ignorant to his companion’s diatribes. He frowned. “That spiteful, confident smirk. Oh, he knew it full well, Zelikman. He took me for a fool, and played me like a fiddle.”

“That does it!” Zelikman got up. “Bid farewell to your freedom, my soon-to-be incarcerated companion!”

“Learn to hold your liquor, Zelikman,” he nonchalantly pulled Zelikman back to the table. “Coin can be obtained at any turn or crossroad, but the healing of a wound, cut open by festering shame, now that is an entirely different matter.”

Zelikman huffed. “Oh! Of course, for riches are of such ease to come by! Such as the time when we went for weeks on end, without as much as a single carriage robbery to our name, while stranded on the middle of a _blasted_ desert! Oh, but no, I always exaggerate don’t I, Amram?”

Amram looked ahead, still lost in his own, Shatranj-related, thoughts.

“Fine! So be it! Let us wait for your childish pride to simmer, and with a little luck we shall only be rotting and maggot devoured by then! In fact, let us also wait as well, for providence itself to bless us with the miracles of easy money!”

At that moment, the tavern door slammed open. A desperate, scrawny, weasel-looking man stood there, shaking. The diminutive man scrambled through the unfriendly characters of the shoddy establishment, blabbering pleads that either fell on deaf ears or received naught but deathly glares and pointed blades.

Zelikman turned a blind eye. “Keep your sight away, Amram. For the love of God, do _not_ initiate eye contact…he saw us, did he not? Oh god, do not tell me he is coming this way, please, Amram.”

“Over here!” Amram cried out. Zelikman screamed inwardly.

“Oh b-bless your empathetic nature k-kind sirs, n-not everyone is so keen to lend a helping hand around these parts,” said the short man with a nasal voice. 

“Indeed, kind we are. Now come, come, what is this about?” Amram asked. He ignored Zelikman’s intense stare.

“W-well,” his eyes shifted nervously about the tavern and his voice lowered to a whisper. “It is a matter of delicate importance you see, most delicate. W-word has spread that the infamous Bartolomeo and his gang of thugs have obtained a coveted secret, the recipe for the making of a most prized stone of legend.”

Amram frowned. “Stone of legend?”

“Y-yes,” he got up close to Amram’s ear. “The philosopher’s stone and I need not tell you the tragedy it would be for its insurmountable power to fall upon the hands of such a vile, treacherous man and his legion of cohorts. The stone not only holds the power to transmute the lowest of feces into the finest, most lustrous of gold, worthy of a monarch’s crown, but it is also a source of unquantifiable power, prime fuel for sorcery. It would be pandemonium itself, were it to befall on the likes of _Bartolomeo_.”

Amram’s eyes glinted with curiosity, not out of the small man’s superstitious warnings, nor the prospect of some magical stone, but of the coincidental kinship between the two, on the hatred of treacherous fiends.

“And you are relaying this delicate information to us, why, may I ask?” he whispered back.

The man looked around and pulled out a small tube of parchment from within his ragged clothing, with surprising swiftness.

“Here lies the location of Bartolomeo’s hideout on this city, one of the many he holds a grip over across Italy. Please, I beg of you, fine men. I am not a man who can put an end to this menace, but _you_ , you are without a doubt, truly exceptional! A trail of adventure and wondrous feats follows you. I knew that at first sight, with every fiber of my being! So, please, I beg of you, you must find and destroy the unholy concoction before it is too late-”

A zipping noise whizzed through the air, and in the blink of an eye, the small man dropped face-first into the grimy tavern floor. A feathered dart protruded at the back of his neck.

Immediately, Amram peered about in the search of the unsavory character who may have perpetrated the crime, unfortunately, however, that made up the entirety of the establishment. Fortunately, when he was just about to return to drowning his sorrows, the sight of a cloaked figure exiting the tavern caught his eye, as did the loud slamming of the entrance, telling the Abyssinian everything he needed to know.

Amram rose up and picked Zelikman up by the back of his garments. “Come, Zelikman! We cannot allow him to escape!”

“I detest you so much right now.” 

* * *

The duo’s performance at the chase was less than stellar, to say the least. The cloaked assassin evaded them at every twist and turn, moving about with mocking glee. They reached the rooftops eventually and the assassin continued on making the wildest of acrobatics, leaping and bounding from roof to roof, with flaunting ease, as if taunting the duo’s comparatively lower proficiency at such stunts. Until suddenly, brought upon by their mutual frustration, the duo fell for one of the pompous killer’s tricks.

They leaped, thinking the assassin was finally within their reach, only for the cloaked man to roll over in the nick of time with his impressive agility. The duo, unable to react fast enough-and still rather numbed by their drinks-slipped over the roof and fell into the stable below.

Luckily, to some extent, Amram and Zelikman’s landing was no more than bothersome, thanks to the considerable mound of mule feces that had softened their fall. However, due to the intensity of the ruckus and the open presence of their brandished ax and lancet, respectively, they now found themselves in the middle of the merchant street, face to face with a large patrol of Templars and their positively large captain, who looked at them with disgust and condescendence.

“Have I told you how much I detest you at this current time,” Zelikman muttered.

Amram shook his head. “Forgive me, Zelikman, for I am not keeping count.”

“Silence, heathens!” the captain shouted. “What is the meaning of this foul-smelling criminality I see before me? Have you two no shame at all, no fear of the lord by brandishing your filthy blades within a walled, holy city? Shame on you! May shame rain down upon your immortal souls _after_ your punishment is due!”

“Oh no, my good man, this is but a simple misunderstanding. We would never do so under normal circumstances, but a murderer is on the loose and we could not afford to stand idle and watch the man wander unpunished. As you can see, I am no stranger to the distaste of foul play myself!” Amram countered with a pleasant smile, which he also directed at Zelikman.

A vein on the captain’s face popped. “You dare imply, Abyssinian, that a criminal has escaped my patrol’s notice and by proxy my very own? I who revere the word of the lord, gifted by his blessings of sight beyond sin? You are gravely misunderstood, heretic! No act of sin _ever_ gets by _my_ watch!”

The Templars behind the captain began to murmur with a tinge of amusement, that is until the captain’s unamused glare shut them up altogether. 

The captain of the Templars looked back at the manure-covered duo, his face reddened with rage.

“Why I should flog you and your Frankish partner-in-crime at this very spot! Such acts of insolence and vigilantism will not go unpunished, this I assure you!”

Amram ignored Zelikman’s smirk. “I truly meant no offense, sir. I would never lay such claims on a holy man, for I know your word is as true as the guiding light above. Knowing that, can we not agree as well on the virtues of man and our mutual distaste for treachery, and let this mere misunderstanding pass us by, as if but a fleeting thought?”

“Silence, Abyssinian!” the captain raised his ceremonial blade. “You shall not attempt to entice me further with your empty flattery and heretical arguments, for every new, sinister word that comes forth from your vile mouth, shall be torture more painful and elaborate than the last! Men, seize them!”

Zelikman smirked still. “Ever the charmer.”

* * *

The Templars ran amuck in the city square, shouted at, and bossed around by their irate leader, but of the Abyssinian and the Frank, they found no sign.

“Have we lost them, Zelikman?” Amram asked as he held his companion on his shoulders, allowing the Frank to gaze upon the entrance to the city sewers.

“It would appear so,” Zelikman grunted and jumped off the Abyssinian’s shoulders. “First a pissing hole, then mule droppings, and now an actual sewer. Are there any other picturesque locales you may have planned for this adventurous journey of ours? Or should I ask not, as to not spoil the surprise?”

Amram frowned pensively. “Now that you remind me, we do have a certain thieves hideout that dead weasel of a man pleaded for us to find. I almost forgot about it truth be told,” he chuckled. “I do suppose we should be searching for that-the existence of magical stones turning feces into gold notwithstanding-we are likely to come upon some fine, sizeable hoard of stolen goods at the very least.” 

Zelikman kept his comment about Amram’s optimism to himself and sighed. “Well, have you the directions of this hideout?

Amram nodded. Then his eyes bulged and he stopped.

“You forgot to take the tubed parchment from the man’s corpse, did you not?”

Amram pursed his lips.

Zelikman massaged his temple. “Honestly, Amram, are you purposefully going out of your way to make my life living purgatory, or is it merely that your overflowing pride-on a board game no less-has claimed your senses to such ridiculous degrees?”

“Come now, Zelikman; have you no trust in my sharp wit, my abilities of logical reasoning, honed to perfection through the venerated practice of a ‘board game’? What better way to hide from the outside world than dwelling in that which lies beneath? If I were to lay the foundations of my own wide-scale operation, I would no doubt place them in the middle of a sewer. Having come to that sound conclusion, it is only a matter of time before we come across the hideout in question!”

Just as Zelikman was about to meticulously tear apart Amram’s dodge of a response, mirthful whispers and footsteps came from the end of the tunnel, growing louder with every passing moment. Hearing this, Amram and Zelikman swiftly hid in one of the darkened parts of the sewer walls and remained silent, watching and listening.

Two rugged-looking men strolled by, dressed in torn clothing, meager leather armor, and two rusty gladius blades hanging by their respective belts. The duo snickered.

“That snorting swine of a Templar sure loves to make a fool out of himself, does he not? Chasing some idiots around and losing trace of them in broad daylight. No wonder the man has yet to find the hideout, let alone catch the boss,” said the shorter and leaner of the two.

The tall and broad one chuckled. “Truly, Leonello’s stupidity knows no bounds.”

“You dare speak heresy? I shall flog you on the spot, you vile heathen!” The short one said in an admittedly accurate imitation of Templar Leonello. He cackled. “The laments of fools aside, have you seen the high spirits of Bartolomeo as of late? It must be because of that prized alchemical formula he just recently acquired, or rather, swiped from under yet another fool’s nose. Do you truly believe it is the recipe for the fabled stone? And if so, what do you think shall be the first thing he will attempt to transform into gold?”

“I do not believe in none of that superstitious nonsense, but alas, the boss’s interest in the art of alchemy is none of my concern, nor is his taste in headwear. After all, it is his share of the coin he chooses to spend on such a dubious pastime.”

As the two thieves went on with their debacle on the veracity of alchemy and passed on by, the other duo, hidden deep in the shadows of a side corridor, peered out and began to follow their trail.

Amram gave Zelikman a mischievous look, as they prowled in near-total silence.

“You see?” the Abyssinian whispered.

“Shut up.”

* * *

The duo strolled by through the enormous den of thieves without a care in the world, and not a soul batted an eye. After all, their disguises were as paramount as they were fitting, the tattered rags formerly worn by those two unlucky thieves, whose corpses now floated amongst the wastes of the city.

Amram, frowning exaggeratedly, stomped his way toward a snoring thief, who lay on a makeshift bed made of dirty, contraband goods, rugs, and cloths.

“Where is the boss? We have matters of great importance to relay!”

The lazy thief did not even bother to look up and simply pointed with his thumb at a small passage at the edge of the complex, where an apathetic, droopy, club-wielding fellow stood guard. Amram harrumphed in response and stormed off, with a noticeably annoyed Zelikman lagging behind.

“We must speak to the boss at once, let us pass!” Amram growled at the indifferent guard.

“…The word of passage,” said the guard with a surprisingly booming voice.

Amram did not cease his intense glare but said nothing.

The guard might have looked unimpressed, but it was honestly rather difficult to tell with his ever-half-lidded eyes.

“Have you forgotten the word of passage?”

Amram added an eye twitch to his act.

“No!”

The guard squinted his eyes by a fraction. “Do I know you?”

Amram puffed up his chest. “Who are you to impart orders and doubt loyalties around here? You are not our leader _Bartolomeo_!”

The guard remained quiet for a moment, before sighing. “You know, the act was wholly unnecessary…and a tad exaggerated,” he moved aside. “You may pass.”

* * *

The short passageway led Amram and Zelikman to a wide chamber with multiple exits and crevices, covered in a thick cloud of smoke. An enormous and steaming alchemical distill stood in the middle of the room, a wide opening on the top showed a bubbling, red-hot liquid that exhumed the smoke. Alongside it was cluttered tables that held a myriad of glass containers, filled to the brim with unknown substances.

There, many of the thieves that stood guard scrambled around the makeshift laboratory. They were helping whoever shouted commands from behind the mammoth contraption, by lifting containers and pouring their contents inside the red-hot mixture with utmost care.

Zelikman jabbed Amram on the side, breaking the Abyssinian out of his curious stupor.

“Boss Bartolomeo, sir! We have matters of great importance to relay!” said Amram.

“ _No Roberto_! I told you to bring me frog extract, not the amphibian’s urinary tract!” the man yelled at one of the thieves. “What was that just now, matters of great importance you say? Well, do speak up and make haste, I am rather busy right now as you can see.”

Amram and Zelikman stood still and quiet.

The man, Bartolomeo, peered from the side of the contraption. Amram and Zelikman froze further, for he not only wore Zelikman’s prized hat, but he was also the same man who soundly defeated Amram at a game Shatranj, the same man that sent the duo on a downwards spiral of desperation and drinks of dubious quality.

“Speak up fools! My time and concentration are of the essence and yet you stand idle, squandering both!”

Zelikman jabbed Amram once more. “Oh, do forgive me. I meant no disrespect.”

Bartolomeo raised a brow. “A skittish one are you not? Are you perchance one of the new recruits? I barely have enough time for myself, let alone to take account of the entire operation.”

“Indeed, sir, quite new! In fact, we were hoping you could lend us some aid. There appears to be a breach occurring at the northernmost part of the sewers and since we are far too low-ranked to go around giving orders to our fellow, similarly-ranked, thieves we thought it would be best if you led the expedition…with us…at your…wing.”

Bartolomeo frowned and quieted down. The rest of the thieves stopped working on the scalding mixture and the chamber grew silent.

“…Have we met before?”

Amram gulped. His sight met Bartolomeo’s at that moment, and though the thief lord had yet to recognize him, the Abyssinian knew it to be only a matter of time. Bartolomeo smirked. It was a look of spiteful confidence, the same one Amram saw during that ruinous game of Shatranj.

As Bartolomeo’s grin grew wider, the thieves inside the chamber began to eye Amram and Zelikman with vile curiosity and malicious intent. The many hands slowly reached for the myriad handles of blades and the tension in the room grew palpable.

Suddenly, the sounds of screaming and clashing steel exploded from outside and all around the chamber, putting everyone on immediate alert, and not long after, a group of blood-drenched, sword-wielding Templars burst from every direction, from the main passageway to the exits spread all over the chamber.

Leonello, the captain of the Templars stood upfront, his face mad with glee and his sword pointed directly at Bartolomeo from a distance.

“Bartolomeo! At last, you are within my grasp. Pray you heathen; pray as you have never before, for soon your soul shall be judged by the highest order!” 

Bartolomeo shook his head. “Leonello? What…how? Whatever is the meaning of this?”

“He had a little help!”

The nasal voice came from one of the exits, and from the darkness appeared a short man, the same whom Amram and Zelikman had last seen dead at the tavern floor. 

“Piccolo?” asked Bartolomeo.

Piccolo scoffed. “Who else, Bartolomeo? Yes, I guided Leonello and his forces to your filthy hideout, for I could not let your treachery go unpunished!”

“Treachery?” asked Bartolomeo. 

Piccolo laughed. “Do not play yourself the fool, Bartolomeo; I know that act full well. You stole the recipe I toiled for endlessly! Thousands of sleepless days and nights, countless ancient texts, and failed experiments to pave the painful path to success, and for what? For a thief, a former mediocre practitioner of the art of alchemy, to simply take it away from me! You were never one for the hardships of true academic labor, Bartolomeo, you merely took what you wanted and claimed it as your own!”

Bartolomeo shrugged. “Life is for those that take its reins, Piccolo. It is not my fault that you trusted me so with your acclaimed recipe, and I do not see what you gain by allying yourself with this pompous idiot. Alchemy is a heretical art, as we all know. You may as well have signed your own demise by revealing your true intentions.”

Leonello stomped the ground. “Silence, heathen! This kind heretic came to me in my time of need and revealed your slippery whereabouts. He spoke of nothing but the truth and I, a righteous arm of the lord as I am, could only reward his earnestness with the gift of revenge and the pardoning of his sins.”

“And I suppose you shall also destroy the concoction that is about to bear its fabled fruit?” Bartolomeo asked Piccolo with a knowing smirk.

“As long as you fall, it matters not if the philosopher’s stone is lost!” shouted Piccolo.

Leonello assumed a fighting stance, as did the rest of his Templars. “I commend your piousness, repenting practitioner of sorcery. Let us deliver due punishment to this vile criminal! For his countless robberies, his putrid schemes, and the forced defilement of purity!”

Bartolomeo cackled as his thieves also prepared for battle. “Forced? Leonello let us not kid ourselves. Order the sisters to confess all you may, but you shall only find that they acted out of their own free will, and quite eagerly so!”

Leonello’s face turned beet red. “Any more confessions you wish to add to your sentence?”

“Not that I know-”

“ _He bested me at Shatranj through treachery_!” shouted Amram, interrupting Bartolomeo.

All swords lowered and all heads turned. Everyone stared at the Abyssinian.

Bartolomeo frowned and scoffed. “How does one cheat at Shatranj? I bested you through skill alone.”

“No you did not, you are a swindler as everyone else here can attest to!” said Amram.

“I loathe agreeing with a renowned criminal, but Bartolomeo is right. Shatranj is a game impervious to the sinful machinations of desperate men,” Leonello’s eyes sparked with recognition. “Say…are you and your partner, not the same fugitives who escaped my grasp a short while ago?”

“Uh…” said Amram nervously.

“And the same ones who forgot to take my directions to the hideout! And yet here you are, quite the good fortune you two seem to carry,” said Piccolo.

“Shut up and start killing yourselves already!” shouted Zelikman, before picking up a flask containing a purple, sizzling liquid and throwing it at one of the Templars.

The small explosion not only killed the man, but it also re-ignited the spark of bloodlust, which a Shatranj-related debacle had very nearly extinguished. A large ball of violence ensued. Blood spilled, bone cracked, gore splat and odd bits of teeth and eyeball flew about.

Amram dodged a blow from one of the Templars and countered with his ax, chopping the man’s head off. “Whatever did you do that for, Zelikman!”

“I have had it up to here with this pointless debacle, nor am I leaving without _my_ hat!” Zelikman ducked and evaded one of the thief’s strikes and countered by skewering the man’s throat with his lancet. “Quick Amram! While everyone else is focused on killing one another!”

Amram tripped a charging thief and delivered a deathly blow on the back. “Quick what?”

Zelikman pointed at the steaming distill. “The contraption. All we need to do is throw these sizzling substances into it from a distance, and it will be sure to explode and take out everyone nearby! Quick!”

However, just as the two picked up a pair of containers, two feathered darts zipped by, knocking them off their hands. Amram and Zelikman immediately reacted by jumping backward, but they were still knocked back by the combined strength of the explosions. As they regained their footing, two shapes appeared from the smoke that now clouded the skirmish. It was Piccolo and the same, cloaked assassin from before.

“I am thoroughly confused,” Amram admitted.

“I concur,” said Zelikman.

Piccolo brandished a pair of small daggers. “A ploy it was you see. A clever trick to feign my own demise through the practical applications of a somniferous dart, to be precise. This of course made all the more convincing when you hire an expert, tongue-less killer to play his part. Not that it mattered much in the end, amusing how life unfolds at times.”

The assassin too donned a pair of daggers and crouched, ready to leap into action.

“I thought you no longer cared about this sham of a stone?” asked Amram as he tightened the grip on his ax.

Piccolo twirled his dagger with blinding speed. “Foolish of you to believe my words, though that does not surprise me. Once those brutes kill one another, I shall claim the spoils of battle for myself, my rightful breakthrough in alchemy included. Unfortunately, since I have already wasted my only somniferous concoction, I am afraid your lives must end in the old-fashioned way.”

In a flash, the opposing groups collided. Steel met steel in a chaotic clash, full of parries, feints, and near-deathly blows. Such was the intensity of the battle, that those unlucky few who intruded fell prey to the flurry of combat. However, it took little time for Amram and Zelikman to realize the difference in speed between them and their opponents. Even Zelikman, the lithe, quick-footed one of the duo, found himself unable to rely on his agility alone to best the rival pair.

Knowing this, and realizing that the longer the fight went on, the worse their odds at victory would become, they did the only thing they possibly could. They cheated.

“ _My_ _eyes_!” Piccolo cried out in disgust, for the Abyssinian had spat with unparalleled accuracy.

Taking advantage of Piccolo’s utter shock at his rancid spittle, and Zelikman’s distraction of the assassin, Amram lunged in, swung his ax in a mighty arc, and cleaved the small man in two.

Now two against one, Amram and Zelikman pressured on with their dual assault, driving the assassin into a figurative corner on the smoke-ridden battlefield.

The assassin, in his desperation (and the realization that his employer and pay were no more) opted for a much-preferred retreat, rather than to fall prey to either the Abyssinian’s ax or the Frank’s lancet. Unfortunately, his theatricality became his downfall, for as he performed a jaw-dropping leap to escape the duo, he unceremoniously plopped to his death inside the scalding-hot mixture of the obscured distill.

Slowly, but surely, the unstable, alchemical contraption began to shake wildly, riveting, bubbling, whistling, and spewing far grander amounts of smoke than ever before. Amram and Zelikman shared a quick look and stormed off. With every step, the sounds of incoming disaster magnified, and just as they reached for one of the visible exits, amidst the thick cloud of steam, they jumped.

The chamber exploded.

* * *

Amram and Zelikman rode towards the beautiful sunset, atop two fine, recently acquired steeds and equipped with a week’s worth of salted rations and full wineskins, all sponsored by some of the stolen goods and coin left in the ruins of the hideout.

They considered taking a much-needed bath at one of the many inns, but both agreed that the sooner they left the city the better. The sinkhole would be ridiculous to lay blame on two mere men, but they had already done much out in the open as it were, and they did not wish for any more trouble.

Amram looked at Zelikman and grinned. Of alchemically transmuted bits of gold, there had been no sign (as a modern reader could have easily intuited), but what they did find in the wake of the explosion was miraculous enough. Zelikman's hat had not a scratch, not a mark, and the Frank made no effort to hide his child-like glee, which he bore all the way from the purchase of their new steeds to the present moment, as they rode towards the horizon. 

“So what have we learned today, Zelikman?”

Zelikman beamed. “You can’t cheat at Shatranj.”

Amram shoved Zelikman off his horse and galloped off.


	2. On Dowries, Love, and Tried and True Acts of Altruism

The first raindrops fell, as did dozens of zipping arrows. Ducking under the enemy fire, Amram and Zelikman ran to help the caravan in need. They had heard the cries of help and the ensuing sounds of the skirmish moments before, and after tying up their horses (at a considerable, arrow-proof distance, by the side of the dirt road) they sprang into action.

Many of the soldiers that escorted the caravan, and the two pulling horses, laid dead on the floor, covered in red-feathered arrows, and those that remained fought a lopsided battle against the brigands. The men could barely contain the frontal assault, all the while the thieves hidden at the edge of the nearby forest sniped at them from afar with their crossbows.

However, as soon as the Frank and the Abyssinian reached the battle, and claimed but the lives of a few unassuming brigands, through a swift skewer and devastating cleave, respectively, the rest of the thieves made for a quick retreat into the entrails of the forest, leaving nothing but bloodshed behind.

“Well, that was rather anticlimactic,” said Amram.

“Not everyone wishes to die a climactic death, Amram,” said Zelikman.

“Is it over?” A voice gasped from inside the caravan. A head peered out, showing the well-fed visage of a wealthy Spaniard merchant. “Thank the heavens they’re gone, but, w-where is the dowry? A-and where is my daughter?”

One of the remaining soldiers, a rugged, veteran of a man, strode toward the caravan. A considerable feat, seeing the arrows that pierced his thigh and shoulder.

The man arrived and took a small breath. “Sir Cristoval, your daughter and her caretaker were taken. Some of my men followed the thieves into the forest as soon as the ruffians dragged the two away during the ambush, but I am afraid not a soul has returned since then.”

“ _Imbeciles_! I hire you due to the wellspring of recommendations spoken of you by the rest of the merchant’s guild, and where does _my_ investment now lay? Thrown aside, splattered with a pile of corpses and defeated men. What sort of so-called sell-swords are you? Taken apart by a ragtag lot of mere brigands!”

“Sir Cristoval, with all due respect to you as my employer, those were no mere thieves,” the man quickly ripped the arrow off his shoulder and showed it to the merchant, who flinched back at the sight.

“These red feathers mark the brand of Ferrando’s band, the Blood-Arrows. By the look on your face, I suppose you now realize the gravity of our predicament. Trust me then, Sir Cristoval, it would be best if we regrouped, and recuperated at the nearest town. My surviving men are wounded, the nightfall and rain are nigh, and soon all of the tracks will be washed away. It pains me to retreat, believe me so, but it would be suicide to enter the home terrain of such an enemy force under these conditions. Perhaps…it would be best if you agreed to a ransom-“

“N-not a word more out of you! I cannot arrive bloodied and humiliated at the nearest town, without my dowry or my associate’s bride to be, nor will I negotiate with a band of thieves. Not only would I become the laughingstock of the merchant’s guild, but I would no doubt lose favor with the lot, and god knows how long I have fought tooth and nail to acquire such a position,” Cristoval pointed a trembling finger at the Mercenary.

“Now you listen to me, and you listen well. I do not care if it rains, sleets, or hails, or if the very day of reckoning itself is upon us, you _will_ recover my dowry, and you _will_ find my daughter-”

Amram sank his ax deep into the ground. Cristoval and the Mercenary veteran turned their heads. Amram beamed at the two, while Zelikman stood indifferent by the Abyssinian’s side.

“Excuse us, but we could not help but overhear your plight!”

Cristoval shot the pair a scathing look. “And who might you be? You certainly have the appearance of filthy highwaymen to you, and believe me, I have already had enough of thievery for one day,” he chuckled mockingly. “Not that you would find much to plunder if my assessment of your person rang true, given that my so-called blades for hire turned out to be nothing more than overpaid target practice.”

Amram calmed Zelikman by patting the Frank’s shoulder and then spoke. “None of the sort, my good man. We are but travelers, with _some_ experience in the art of war and subterfuge,” he added with a wink, “and so we thought, what better way to show our goodwill to you, a fellow gentleman of the road, than through an act of tried and true altruism!” 

Cristoval glanced with curiosity at the couple of dead brigands that laid near the Frank and the Abyssinian and then noted that not so much as a scratch marred the duo’s selves. He smirked.

“Let us not jest ourselves, Abyssinian. Altruism is but a facet, a sweetened lie if you will. However, I cannot deny the tantalizing prospect of actually recovering my rightful property within today’s timespan,” he clapped. “So be it. You two shall run along into the woods, fetch back my dowry, rescue my daughter, unharmed of course and…oh…goodness gracious, I almost forgot about the caretaker! Anyway, as I was saying, recover the former and I shall grant you a modicum sum of the dowry as a reward. Run along now.”

“Sir, I beg of you to reconsider. Two men alone cannot enter the territory of Ferrando and his cohorts, at least not in the hope to leave in any form beyond butchered or skewered!” the Mercenary interceded.

Cristoval shrugged. “Fine then. You will go along with them.”

The Mercenary paused, taken aback. He then tightened his lip and nodded.

“So be it,” he motioned Amram and Zelikman to follow. “Come with me.”

“Before we part, however, what about our horses? We left them tied up a few ways from here. We could not afford to have a stray arrow killing one of our steeds,” said Amram as he nodded toward the two dead stallions in front of the caravan.

“I will make sure to task some of my men with the protection of your mounts,” the Mercenary responded absently, as he removed the arrow from his thigh, and proceeded to bandage his wounds with the help of another soldier.

“I appreciate your consideration,” said Amram as he gave a curt bow.

The Mercenary, ignorant of Amram’s response, tested the strength of his gauze bindings, gave his saber a few testing swings and thrusts, and then placed the blade back inside its scabbard.

“Alright, let us leave then. May lady luck herself deem us worthy.”

Amram picked up his ax and smiled. “May she indeed,” he held out his hand. “Amram.”

The Mercenary took the handshake. “A pleasure,” he said dryly. Zelikman snorted.

“What are you _idiots_ waiting for?” Cristoval screamed. Zelikman inwardly complied.

* * *

The downpour grew stronger with every passing moment, and nightfall was not far behind. Amram, Zelikman, and the Mercenary traversed through the twisting, muddied paths of the ever-darker woods, their steps plopping on the soft, wet soil, their clothes gradually drenched by the rainfall. Of Cristoval’s daughter (or the dowry, the brigand’s hideout, and her less than cared for caretaker) there had been no sign, and things were beginning to look rather dire for the group.

Fed up with the woes of soggy garments, the constant pauses the Mercenary made to check for tracks, and their so far pointless searches for a bowman or scout hidden somewhere amidst the treetops, Zelikman finally spoke his first words of the search.

“I sincerely wonder what the term modicum truly means to that man,” he sighed. “Something tells me that it is not nearly half of what I’d like to believe.”

“Any sum will do, Zelikman. Besides, we are in no desperate need of coin. Think of this more of as a pleasant detour, with the off chance of spare riches lying at the very end,” said Amram.

Zelikman frowned and wrung his hat. “Nothing pleasant about this little detour.”

“Is that what you both believe this to be? A detour?” the Mercenary asked. He was crouching and eying a pair of faded indentations on the mud, not bothering to face the duo.

Amram shrugged. “There have been no signs of watchmen so far, nor of stray arrows stuck on our backs. If my instincts ring true, then these thieves must have hoped for the rain to cover their tracks, and that your forces wounds would deter them from venturing inside the woods. A common case of overconfidence, nothing more.”

“I miss my days of overconfidence,” the Mercenary groaned as he got up. ”…and good knees.”

Amram patted the Mercenary on the back. “Who is to say there is an age when one is forced to stop testing the powers that be? Why your profession itself is a testament to that. Fighting men are not renowned for their longevity, and yet here you are, rescuing damsels in distress, against all odds!”

The Mercenary scoffed and smiled thinly. “My fate is long overdue, that we can agree on.”

Amram gained a mischievous glint to his eye. “Any escapades with a certain employer’s daughter you might want to confess to us? Not to worry, we are quite the capable pair of confidantes. Whatever sin you may have committed we shall take with us to the grave; that I can assure you. No word on our ghostly selves, however.”

The Mercenary cackled aloud. “I am far too old to indulge myself in such risky pleasantries. I have already had my fill for a lifetime, I will say that much.”

Amram hummed thoughtfully. “And not a single of these escapades managed to claim your weary heart, not even after all these long years?”

The Mercenary fell quiet. “…No, not one.”

Amram pursed his lips in doubt but decided not to comment any further. He glanced at Zelikman, as to see what his companion thought about the Mercenaries, implied, past. Zelikman had yet to wring all of the water out of the hat, and Amram knew the Frank could have cared less if a bowman had struck an arrow through his head at that very moment.

Suddenly, the Mercenary stopped.

Zelikman groaned. “Why did we stop? Have we not had enough of these fruitless pauses?” he asked, before putting his-still very much wet-hat back on.

Without a word, the Mercenary crouched and began to move aside lumps of mud on the ground. He paused his digging and then began to pull something out of the muck. It was a scarf he held, a ripped scarf of dirty brown dyes, the scarf of a commoner. He raised himself swiftly and turned back toward the duo. His eyes were firm and resolute.

“We are close.”

* * *

Led by the Mercenary, the group followed a trail of bits of tattered cloth strewn about on the forest floor, until the sounds of a turbulent river and loud cheers caught their ears. All of these signs led them to a clearing, where they finally came upon the thieves’ hideout. 

The hideout itself was composed of two abandoned guard towers, which stood side by side the river, stone buildings of an-comparatively-older time. The first tower had the only reachable door, accessed through a worn-down set of stairs. The second tower, on the other hand, also had one door, but it was only accessible through a makeshift bridge of planks that connected it to the first. A loud furor came from inside the second tower, lightly offset by the rain.

Amram, Zelikman, and the Mercenary hid near the edge of the clearing, waiting for the right moment to strike. The rain became an unbearable shower, and night obscured what little light remained, beyond the illumination from within the towers. Not long after Zelikman’s first couple of complaints, a crossbow-wielding figure emerged from the bushes and scrambled toward the first tower’s door.

The figure, one of the thieves, performed a secret knock (though a frantic rapping would have been a more accurate description). He was clearly desperate to get inside and escape the incessant downpour.

* * *

The door finally opened. The soaked guard scrambled inside the dimly lit guardroom and gasped. He glared at the group of three guards sitting by a table, which held a small mound of coins and several empty wine bottles. The guards were playing a particularly engaging game of cards it seemed, at least, engaging enough as to ignore his multiple, loud attempts at the secret knock.

The guard who had opened the door nonchalantly went back to the table and sat down. He picked up his set of playing cards and shot suspicious looks at the others, who merely turned their eyes away.

“Close the door will you?” The guard asked as he placed a card on the table. Some of the guards snickered, he sighed.

The soaked guard slammed the door. “Have you all grown deaf?”

“We heard you, loud and clear.” The guard slammed his fist on the table. “I swear to god, Aznaro, you take but one more look at my hand of cards, and the boss _will_ know the imbecile who drank his last bottle of Rioja!”

The soaked guard loudly muttered a large string of insults, as he took off his soggy leather armor and crossbow and tossed them aside (rather noisily as well).

The guard sighed. “Do you mind? Or can you not see that we are in the middle of an important matter?”

“Yes, I can see that! So much more important than opening the door to a pointlessly assigned guard, left to freeze outside beneath the great deluge!”

“If a little shower has you complaining, then I would love to see you with a dagger stuck behind your back,” said the guard as he placed another card on the table, which caused the rest of the players to groan. He smiled and took all of the coins for himself.

“Complaining? You saw it yourself. We butchered those swords for hire, more than half the force we did. Only a band of lunatics would dare follow us into our woods, less so a badly-wounded lot,” he furiously wiped his face dry with a lying animal pelt. “And definitely not under these conditions. Sending me on guard duty was cruel, unnecessary, and downright paranoiac, to say the least.”

Someone knocked on the door, much more calmly this time.

The now slightly less soaked guard stared conspicuously at the door, for he-sober and paranoiac as he was-did not remember any other man tasked with night-watch duty along with him. He tensed and shifted his feet.

“Hear that difference?” said the beaming guard as he put the coins inside a satchel, and went to open it. “I have no issues answering the door to a fellow thief who does not mind a little sogginess in his clothes, and whose patience is an actual virtue! Well, do come on in friend, drinks on-”

With a swift skewer through the jugular, the formerly fortunate guard twitched and fell dead to the floor. Taken aback by this sudden death-and hampered by several rounds of alcohol-the rest of the guards sitting at the table struggled to stand, and unsheathe their weapons, but by the time they did, they had all fallen prey to the ax, the lancet, and the saber.

“What about the other one? That fellow with the crossbow,” asked Amram, as he cleaned his ax with a fox pelt.

Zelikman peered through the open door that connected to the bridge between the towers. He looked down and scoffed.

“Fell to his death trying to escape,” he shook his head. “Real clumsy that one was, dropped his bolt quiver even.”

“What do you see in the other tower?” asked the Mercenary as he picked up, and inspected the crossbow on the floor. It still worked.

“Not much I am afraid, the door is closed. But it appears that the noise is coming from the next room, so if there are any guards left, then the ruckus must have rendered them oblivious to our little killing spree,” said Zelikman.

Amram stretched his shoulders. “Then all we have to do is knock cordially.”

“That we will,” said the Mercenary.

* * *

The Mercenary attempted the secret knock once more, much more loudly this time. After all, it is more often than not the fifteenth attempt (and not the third) which yields the desired results. 

“What a surprise! Failed it did! Can we now cease this pointless knocking, and break down this god-forsaken door already? My hat is no more than a filthy washcloth by now, a. _Filthy_. _Wash_. _Cloth_.” shouted Zelikman. Amram chuckled at his impatience. “I do not see you coming with any helpful ideas yourself, Amram! Oh, yes, go ahead, laugh, chortle; indulge yourself in your childish mirth, however much you like! We shall see who washes your filthy garments from this day forward!”

The Mercenary gestured the Frank to calm down, to little effect. “Let us try _one_ more time. Someone in the other room is bound to overhear our rapping and come to answer the door. Breaking it down (or your bizarrely excessive love for a hat) on the other hand is sure to offset their celebration, and that would no doubt have us losing the element of surprise.”

“Not much of an element of surprise if we sound no more different than a trio of flapping tuna,” Zelikman muttered as he wrung his hat.

Amram gave the Mercenary an understanding look and shrugged amiably.

The Mercenary merely stared. One more try, he thought, just one more. Although, with the soaked weight of his armor, the endless pouring of the rain, and the Frank’s near-infinite repertoire of complaints, the idea of crashing the door open, subterfuge be damned, tempted him to no end.

He pushed back the thought and began to knock again. The door opened.

“ _What do you ruffians want_ -“

The lithe, middle-aged, and stern woman that had opened the door froze in place, her eyes focused on the Mercenary in front of her. After a moment of stillness, her gaze softened. She brought the Mercenary inside the chamber and embraced him with a desperate, welcoming warmth.

“Oh, dear me, Estevan. You valiant _idiot_!” she slapped him. Her eyes grew teary. “Please, do forgive me…I-I just, so much happened, it all went by so fast…and I…I…oh, Estevan, thank the heavens you are alright!”

Estevan ignored the sting on his face and smiled. “And I am glad to see you safe as well, Godina.”

Godina sobbed and buried her face on Estevan’s shoulder. “It’s terrible, Estevan, that scoundrel Ferrando has trapped Lady Catalena in his quarters. I dare not imagine the foul things he plans to do to her, the ruffian! Poor, poor Lady Catalena! Please, I beg you Estevan, you _must_ save her!”

“And that we will,” Estevan reassured. 

Godina still whimpered but calmed down nevertheless. She looked at the curious duo that stood behind Estevan. The large Abyssinian waved kindly, while the Frank was comparatively indifferent as a whole and rather focused on the intense wringing of his hat.

“And who might you two be? I have never seen your faces before! You are certainly not from around here. Are you perhaps new recruits of Estevan’s band?”

“Volunteers, madam,” Amram corrected cordially. “Amram and…”

Amram glanced at Zelikman, who had finally ceased the intense twisting, squeezing, and scrunching of the overly prized hat. The Frank huffed and put it on. It drooped.

“…Zelikman, at your service!”

Estevan coughed. “Yes, most kind volunteers, Godina, most kind,” he turned a blind eye at Amram’s knowing smirk. “Regardless, what can you tell me about the room up ahead, Godina? Their numbers, their faults, anything, any information you may happen to know may prove invaluable.”

“There are more than thirty men crowded up in that mess of a hall. I dare not open the door myself to see the filth they wallow in. Drunkard and vile they all are right now, and endless nonsense they spout without end. It disgusts me.”

Estevan’s face turned grim. “Thirty men…anything else you may have noticed?”

Godina pondered for a bit. “…Well, when the brutes dragged me and Lady Catalena to their hideout, they blathered on and on about large amounts of a strange powder they stole from some eastern merchants, not too long ago apparently. It supposedly possesses magical qualities, of a most destructive kind, if ignited. Sieging they talked about! God knows better than to hand over such terrible tools to fiends like these.”

Estevan’s eyes lit up, as did the Frank’s and the Abyssinian’s.

“Where can we find this “magical” powder, exactly?” asked Estevan.

“It is in the room up ahead, they stored it in casks it seems,” she scoffed. “I hope they perish on the case of mistaken identity, between wine and magical eastern powders.”

The group of warriors paused. They all gazed upon the crossbow, hanging in Estevan’s belt, the wooden bolts that Zelikman carried, and the few, lit candles spread throughout the chamber. Zelikman frowned and shook his head.

“What sort of fool would leave an ignitable powder inside of a wooden cask? In the middle of a makeshift mess hall no less?”

“Alas, Zelikman. The contrivances of life,” Amram shrugged.

Zelikman raised a brow. “What?”

* * *

“For life!” the drunken thieves cried merrily, their raised mugs filled to the brim with stolen wine, beer, and ale, courtesy from all corners of Spain, and a few other neighboring countries.

“Toast for what you say?” asked the drunken thief, who stood over one of the tables in the mess hall. By his side were the many casks of fine beverages, and a few more of exposed, black powder.

“For gold!” the other thieves cried back.

“What do we toast for, gentlemen!” the drunkard screamed.

“For wenches!” the thieves howled, toasted, and cackled.

“What do we toast for, you louts!” the drunkard bellowed.

“For-”

A fiery bolt zipped through the unassuming thieves and landed straight into the black powder. The ensuing explosion consumed all those within the blast and engulfed the room-and the myriad of stolen tapestries and carpets-in flames.

Wasting no time, Amram, Zelikman, and Estevan, fully drenched by the rain in preparation of their daring heist, leaped inside the fiery mess hall and made for the stairs that led to the entrance of Ferrando’s chamber. However, before Estevan could have gone any further, a tight grip on his shoulder stopped him in his tracks.

“I told you to make for the first tower, Godina! There is no-“

Interrupted once more, Godina turned Estevan around and silenced him with a quick, but passionate kiss. She pulled back, caressed his face, and ran back towards the safety of the neighboring tower.

After a brief moment of stupefaction, Estevan resumed his sprint. Amram and Zelikman waited for him in front of the entrance to Ferrando’s quarters (in spite of the sweltering heat), and the Abyssinian’s mischievous stare bore down on the weary veteran, every step of the way.

“Not a word,” Estevan huffed. “Ready?”

The duo nodded and slammed the door open.

They came upon a luxuriously decorated chamber with a single-window. Eastern rugs covered the floor, along with awe-inspiring paintings, and many a fine bottle of wine, stored in a top-quality oak cellar. All of it did a marvelous job at hiding the otherwise decrepit state of the stonework, and there, in front of the large bed and the chest that contained the dowry, stood Ferrando.

Tall, imposing-the great-sword on his back notwithstanding-and dashing, the man was not one to trifle with, and by his side, was Catalena.

Diametrical opposite of her father in appearance, Catalena was a sight like none other. Her eyes sweet and delicate, as was her shape, the envy of maidens kingdom-wide. The picture of innocence itself she was, and fittingly enough, she immediately fled to the safety of Estevan’s back as soon as he appeared.

Seeing Catalena safe behind him, Estevan pointed his crossbow at Ferrando. “It’s over, Ferrando, but I am not without reason. You may come with us alive or-”

In one swift move, Catalena struck Estevan behind the back, dropped the dagger, and returned to Ferrando’s side. Neither Amram nor Zelikman managed to catch her, for they had instead reacted by coming to Estevan’s aid.

Estevan clenched his teeth in pain as he clutched the unarmored side of his back. Amram helped him up, while Zelikman assumed a defensive stance with his lancet, guarding them both against the possibility of a frontal assault.

“Are you dead?” Amram asked bluntly.

“No, not yet, unfortunately. The girl’s aim is not one of her virtues,” Estevan gritted. “Catalena! What is the meaning of this?”

“Silence you heartless sell-sword! _Your_ kind has no say in the matters of _true_ _love_!” exclaimed Catalena as she embraced Ferrando. “Is that not so, my dearest?”

Ferrando embraced her back and twirled with much joy! Almost as if, the flames on the mess hall were but an afterthought.

Amram, Zelikman, and Estevan stared flatly at the two spinning lovers; all the while, the fire crackled in the mess hall, and slow, but steadily climbed its way to the chamber.

Ferrando kissed her deeply. “As true as my heart burns for you, my dearest love! Ever since we met that fated day at that town fair, I knew myself bewitched, and I knew too at that moment that not all the fine tapestries, gold, and wine I stole, and would ever steal, would amount to anything, not in the face of what you mean to me. Oh, Catalena, how my love burns for you! Eternal muse of my fiery passion!”

The fire that crept near the entrance of the chamber burned just as much, prompting Zelikman to shut the door. Meanwhile, Amram had already applied first aid to Estevan, who could now stand, albeit shakily.

Catalena giggled. “Oh, my dear Ferrando, how long I prayed for the day where I would be swept away from the clutches of my father!” her voice grew unfittingly vindictive. “That foul _pig_ , thinking he could have used me as a bargaining chip to earn the favor of another slob of a merchant. The sooner we ask for ransom, and pilfer all of his riches, the better! Can you see it now, my dear Ferrando? Our wondrous future?”

Amram, Zelikman, and Estevan shared flat glances and moved a tad away from the crackling door.

Ferrando laughed. “That I can, my dearest Catalena, and this shall be but the first of our many escapades. We can reform my…no, _our_ band of thieves with ease. Through my renown alone, I shall rally forces from near and far, and together we shall start anew! Let it be known here and now, that nothing will stand in the way of our-”

Ferrando did not finish the sentence, for Amram-taking full advantage of the lovers demented enrapture-had gone over and whacked the thief unconscious with the flat side of his ax.

* * *

To say Catalena was livid would have been an understatement, luckily, however, she also understood that the blaze that entered the room could have cared less, and so, she begrudgingly accepted the group’s proposition. They leaped from the window into the river below, with Amram carrying an unconscious Ferrando, Zelikman holding the dowry chest, and Estevan shielding Catalena in his arms, despite his fresh injury.

Escaping the turbulent waters was surprisingly easy, given that Godina had seen their daring leap from below and made haste to come to their aid. However, as soon as Catalena recovered her breath, the merchant’s daughter began to spout a surprisingly diverse and colorful set of insults, directed at those who had attempted such vile acts against her dearest love.

Fortunately, Catalena’s tantrum would not last for long, for Amram and Zelikman soon interrupted her with an offer-like threat she could refuse. Either she allowed Godina and _her_ dearest love, Estevan (which the Mercenary finally accepted as the truth, albeit with some fluster) to keep half of the dowry as a reward for her rescue, or they would toss Ferrando back into the river.

Catalena accepted, and after begging Godina forgiveness with teary eyes, for her own attempt at someone else’s love, the elder woman, with a wide smile and tearful eyes of her own, embraced her and told her that all was well, as long as she was.

And so, after leaving Ferrando inside the unburnt tower with a note of the agreement, the group left the hideout and returned to the rendezvous point, where Cristoval eagerly awaited for the return of his dowry, and to a near-equal extent, his daughter.

Of course, Cristoval only got so far near the chest, before Amram and Zelikman played their hand and threatened the greedy merchant into giving away half of the dowry, rather than the “modicum” sum they had originally agreed upon.

Cristoval, aghast at such treachery, demanded Estevan and the remainder of the mercenary forces to deal with the Frank and the Abyssinian, but his daughter’s pleas (and the close proximity of his neck to the lancet and the ax), quickly forced the merchant to reconsider and give in to the duo’s demands.

Some weeks later, Estevan and Godina, both retired and soon to be married, found an exorbitant sum inside their coffers. They presumed it to be the gift of a mysterious benefactor, a tried and true act of "anonymous" altruism. Catalena on the other hand, currently unwed due to the untimely demise of her former husband-to-be, decided to partake as a bridesmaid for her dearest Caretaker, all the while handling her late father’s business with utmost expertise.

Naturally, rumors spread about the true agents of both deaths, ranging from the woes of badly cooked pork to the ridiculous notion of three, swashbuckling assassins, who-supposedly-infiltrated the well-guarded mansions of both merchants at night, and then proceeded to perform their less than savory acts. 

One thing was certain, however, Catalena’s right-hand man and rumored lover was the talk and envy of maidens everywhere.


End file.
